Not Today
by Buttons579
Summary: Every now and then, Death would meet a mortal who could see them coming. Angela Ziegler was one of those. Warning: graphical violence. Suicide attempt.


Death first met the girl when she was very young, though all mortals seemed young to them. They came with the cold of the night, walking through the ruins, reaping the souls of the wounded and weak as they went. There was dust and debris and the metallic scent of blood mixed with machine oil. The place had been visited by War, they knew, which was as old as humanity itself.

She found the child lying on the arms of her mother. Death could hear the woman's heartbeat, quieter with each passing moment. She sensed a man's soul – the father, they supposed – float nearby, already long detached from his flesh.

When they approached, the girl turned to them. Death hesitated for a moment. It was not unusual that the young would be able to sense their coming, while they're still innocent and their essences were not yet tainted by the joys and sorrows of the material world.

The mother's pulse slowed down until it was still. Death didn't have shape and didn't have limbs, but they extended what the child would perceive as a hand towards the woman.

"Who are you?" the girl asked, looking up from where she laid.

This time, Death paused, tilting their head with surprise and a little awe. It wasn't the first time they'd met a human who could see them, of course not, but those were rare and had been growing increasingly fewer with the years.

This girl was the first in what even they felt was a long time.

"I am Death," they said, turning to the child. "And I've come to take them."

* * *

They met many, many times after that. Death saw her hover around battlefields and first aid tents, around the sick and the wounded – around the dying. It was no coincidence, they knew. Those who saw them would either feel repulsed or drawn, and it was clear that this girl was one of the latter.

They spotted one another, for sure, but the girl didn't approach. It didn't surprise them – that a child would be scared of them, the ultimate horror, was really no surprise, even though in their experience, the young were often way less wary of them than the old.

Death didn't keep very good track of time – it didn't matter to them, after all – but they felt it was a while until their next interaction. They found the girl, kneeling next to a fatally wounded soldier, holding his hand as his life slipped. She looked at them without flinching, even as they extended their fingers to reap the soul.

She didn't let go when the man ran out of breaths.

"I'll stop you," she said, as so many others before her had.

Death would have smiled, if they could. Instead, they just faded away.

* * *

She was persistent, they had to give her that. The war came to a stop eventually, and Death didn't see the girl for many years.

They were on a hospital in Zurich when they came in contact again. She had grown, her features changed from round and innocent to that of a fierce teen. They noticed the white coat, stained with coffee, they noticed the books on her backpack and the rings under the girl's eyes, and they thought, _so that's how it will be._

There was hatred in her eyes when she noticed their presence approach the bed. It made Death feel Sad, though sadness to them was not the same as sadness to a mortal. There was deep melancholy in watching this story play out once again – watching that little one spend her life fighting a battle she could never win.

Death hoped she'd see the light of it eventually, they honestly did. This villain role they were handed was tiring and somewhat unfair. They weren't good or bad, they just _were._ A force of nature, as it was.

They watched the soon to be deceased, an old woman who'd fought a long battle against cancer, take her last breaths. The heartbeat monitor beeped angrily when the pulse stopped, and Death was gentle when she took the soul away.

They nodded to the girl when they left, acknowledging her presence – they knew they'd be seeing her around often from then on.

* * *

It was bound to happen sooner or later – despite efforts often futile, every now and then a physician could actually extend someone's life. And with the way the girl jumped at every opportunity to be on the emergency room, she would surely witness it eventually.

It was a man, twenty three of age, cause of near death: motorcycle accident. The medics worked quick, their movements guided by years of experience. The blonde hung around them, helping as she could, passing instruments over to the surgeons. She saw Death and didn't flinch.

Death waited by the door, watching the mortals scurry around, trying to save yet another flimsy life. That Death had shown up was not in fact a guarantee that someone would die, merely that they _could_ , and so the specter paused as they let the situation to unfold.

It should have been exciting, the struggle, and they supposed at some point in their timeless existence it had been, but after so long, Death was just tired. Even as the surgeon sawed the victim's skull open to remove a mass of blood held under the delicate skin that covered the brain, they felt nothing but monotony.

 _Same old, same old._

When the team stabilized the patient, Death knew right away that this one had escaped them, for now. They waited until the girl was alone in the room to approach her, even though they needn't have. They could talk to her in her mind, away from this material world, if so they wished. Yet the girl didn't know that yet, and Death had nothing if not time.

They weren't sure what they were going to say, but they certainly didn't expect her to initiate the conversation.

"Well?" she snapped. Her name was Angela, Death knew – they knew all names, but cared for none. "I think congratulations might be in order."

 _What?_

"We saved him, didn't we?" The girl glimpsed at the heartbeat monitor as if to make sure. "We did. You aren't taking him, not today."

"Are you sure?"

They saw Angela hesitate for a split second before putting on a brave face. "Yes."

Death scoffed. "You're right. This one will live to see another day."

"And?"

 _She has some nerve,_ they thought, more amused than anything. They'd gotten many emotions from mortals – fear, despair, anger, but also gratitude and hope. Yet this kind of affront was something new and refreshing. It wasn't every day a kid reacted to their presence with this level of ruthless spite.

"You've only delayed the inevitable," they pointed out.

"Yes! We've delayed it!"

"Shouldn't you be scared of me?" They turned to face her, crossing their not-quite-arms over their chest, legitimately puzzled. "I am Death."

"Hi Death," she extended her hand. "I'm Angela. I'm going to kick your ass. I now realize it was quite rude of me not to introduce myself sooner." The girl eyed her palm for a moment. "Uh. Can we, you know, shake on it without my soul being reaped from my body?"

"…sure."

* * *

They went to visit her on the day of her first surgery. There was no one passing on that day, not where she was, but after thousands of years of work, Death could afford to give themself that sort of rule-bending break.

She was startled to see them, of course - Death had that effect on people, particularly young doctor apprentices. She didn't let it shake her, however, instead carrying on with the procedure as if they weren't there. It was a simple thing, banal really – she removed a couple of moles and closed the skin up with a few stitches. The girl had good technique and steady hands. She'd make for a fine challenger, they were sure.

They watched in silence as Angela sent the patient on his merry way.

"What are you doing here? I thought for a moment he would have an allergic reaction to the anesthesia, but no, he's fine."

Death smirked in that way people who knew things smirked. "Just getting familiar with the enemy, if you will."

"Oh." She slid her hands on the pockets of her white coat. "I did a nice job. I'm pretty proud of it, if I say so myself."

They scoffed. She had an edge to her personality which was bound to be beaten out of her eventually, but which Death was oddly fond of.

They watched the man walk away from them, until he turned the corner. And then they grinned.

"It was malignant infiltrative melanoma."

There was a split second of satisfying silence in which Angela's mouth gaped. "Oh, _motherfucker - !_ "

Angela broke into a run. Death, surprised with her reaction, glided after. _"What, what are you going to –"_

"Mister! Hey, mister!" the girl skidded to a halt. "Do you think you could wait for a moment longer?"

The man blinked. "Uh, sure –"

 _"You crazy little bastard,"_ they whispered to her ear. _"What are you going to do, amputate the toe?"_

The words gave the girl pause, and she pulled a mobile phone from her pocket and quickly dialed a number. "Hi Thomas, it's Angela. I need a little bit of a favor. A biopsy. Yes, for today. Preferably for the next hour, if possible. I'm holding the patient meanwhile."

Sounds of displeasure came from the other end. Death shook their head in disbelief.

"Thanks, Tom, I owe you one."

Death turned to the man and saw before their very eyes his life expectancy suddenly double. This was _precisely_ why interacting with humans was improper behavior – they were tricky and they never cared about fair play. Not with Death, at least.

Angela faced them. She was grinning, the little shit, and she had the nerve to wink. "Guess I owe you one, too."

* * *

She never went off at them, was never angry.

Yet more than once Death caught her crying when she thought they weren't looking.

* * *

"Sometimes, it's better to let go," Death warned as they followed her into the surgery room.

Angela paused at their voice, barely holding her breath, and gave them a corner-eyed stare. "That's not what I'm here for."

They shook their head. The man on the operation table had very little life left in him. His chances were slim, perhaps the slimmest they'd ever seen the girl work on – the _woman_ now, they reminded themself.

Death had no doubt she'd make it – she was, perhaps, the best they'd seen in a long while.

It was unfortunate. He had very little humanity left in him when she was done.

* * *

Death looked for her first, past rubble and smoke, down into the depths of the facility's lower levels. She turned to them when they approached – giving Death what they could only describe as déjà vu.

"So, have you come for me?" Angela asked, lying immobile on a pile of debris.

They approached and offered her a hand. She took it, stumbling to her feet.

"Not today."

Her only response was to cough, leaning against an unstable wall. Death saw her life expectancy abruptly shorten, and promptly shooed her away from that piece of concrete in particular. She grabbed something from the broken cabinet – a very large needle – and stuck it on her own arm, wincing as the liquid flowed in.

Interesting things, those microscopic machines of hers. Death found them amusing, though ultimately as pointless as the efforts of all others before her. They would come for all and every single human, eventually.

Angela grabbed a handful more needles and a moment later, she was off the room and running. Death glided after, picking up souls as they went. It was hard to tell who was following whom, but they saw her wince at every single corpse, some disfigured beyond recognition.

Death was not heartless, despite popular belief.

"There," they said at some point, pointing to a man in a corner, knocked out cold. They needn't say anything else. Angela was onto him in a split second, delivering her magic directly to his jugular. She hesitated then, tried to pull him up.

"He'll wake in time," they reassured.

She acquiesced with a nod and moved on. They tipped her off a couple more times – one with a small girl, another with a short man. And then she stopped in front of someone else – a dark skinned male, his body torn in half. One needed be neither physician nor the immortal manifestation of Death to see that one was long gone.

Angela knelt before him anyway.

"No," they warned.

She had the strength to look at them in the eyes before doing it, at least. The usual playful challenge was gone from her eyes – instead there was only sadness and despair.

Death suddenly felt very, very tired.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, and they were unsure to whom exactly that was meant.

The man didn't die. He didn't live, either. For him, too, Death would come, though his lifeline grew blurry as he rose with a scream of rage and pain. It was a mistake of hers, they knew – with that single decision, she'd just determined many other lives would end prematurely.

But she'd learn that soon enough.

"Sometimes, it's better to let go," they told her for the second time, hoping this time the message would go through.

* * *

They followed her creations around for a while. The two men fought for distinct causes. Yet to Death, ideologies it didn't matter. 'Innocent' and 'guilty' were first and foremost human concepts, and they held no such distinctions. Regardless of the reasoning behind it, a stunning amount of extra souls came from their actions.

The older man titled himself 'The Reaper'. The younger had no such theatricals, though he too reaped the lives of many. They both killed with violence and anger. They both held many regrets. Death followed the two for quite some time, simultaneously and separately.

Ultimately, they grew bored of it. The lives of killers were hardly ever interesting to them – they'd seen those stories unfold many, many times.

* * *

The first was a man, no older than thirty. The cyborg came for him at night, when he was alone and asleep. He woke the victim up before the deed, something about giving the man a chance to defend himself. Something about 'honor'.

The one difference Death saw between that and the alternative was that murdering a sleeping person involved a lot less screaming.

The blade went at his chest with strength enough to fracture a rib. It was a carbon fiber and steel sword – a clean cut, a single _squelch_ as metal pierced skin and bone and then the thin membrane that surrounded the lung. He fell, gasping for air as that very air entered his body the wrong way and kept him from breathing.

It would be humane to grant him a swift ending then. The cyborg doesn't.

The man dies a dozen minutes later, after his own blood had filled his thorax so much his heart no longer had any room for beating.

* * *

The second was a woman.

The Reaper, as opposed to the cyborg, cared very little for mannerisms. He was ruthless and efficient. Death appreciated that, somehow.

He blew her head to bits, the bullet blasting fragments of skull and its innards all over the room's floor. It grew slippery with a mixture of blood and the yellowish liquor the brain had previously floated in. He stepped on her hand as he left, crunching the delicate finger bones under his boot.

Her soul was less tormented - there had been no time for her to feel pain.

* * *

The third was also a woman, an older one at that.

The cyborg was conflicted about it, they could tell. All the better – they made it quick, and Death, despite being for all practical reasons omnipresent, liked to think as themself as a busy entity. They had no time and saw no joy in watching a mortal's final squirms.

A beheading, it was. He was kind enough to do it back-to-front, rather than the other way round, sectioning the vertebrae, then the medulla, and only after the esophagus and windpipe. There was a split second in which the head was still alive, one moment of horror as she watched her own body fall, and then Death took her with a flick of their hand.

The heart kept on beating, until the severed artery had squirted enough blood into the room that it lacked the sheer liquid volume and oxygen to keep going. The final picture was that of an interesting red stain on the walls.

It was almost artistic.

* * *

The fourth went out with shotgun blasts, this time to the abdomen. The entry hole of the first bullet was the size of a marble. The exit hole was the size of an orange. The second bullet was at much closer range, and it blew a hole through the belly's muscles. Inner abdominal pressure forced parts of the intestines out through it, even as the ruptured viscera filled the body's innards with feces.

Death watched it all happen with the analytical glance of someone who'd seen it a thousand times.

 _A ruptured spleen!_ They thought as the third bullet went in.

And then the soul was theirs for the taking.

* * *

The next was a machine.

Did omnics have souls? Death did not know themself. If they did, then those belonged to another entity entirely. They did _die_ , however, and that Death knew for sure, because the machines' passing called to them as much as any humans'.

Taking that life bothered the cyborg – he saw a lot of himself in the robot, they supposed. It was an intriguing crisis of identity, albeit a futile one. Cyborg or not, the man still had a soul – and that, too, Death knew for a fact.

It was always fascinating to watch an omnic die. They could turn off their sensory input, but they never chose to. They clung to that final moment, to that final sensation, even as electric currents racked their mechanical parts with more pain than a human could ever imagine.

There was oil, instead of blood. There were gears, instead of bones. When omnics were first conceived, Death was very interested on them, because they were living, and every living thing eventually had to go. But even that novelty had long worn off.

Right then, as they watched the impulses on the metal skull fade away, Death merely wished they could ease the machine's passing.

They lost count of the victims after that.

* * *

When Death showed up on her bedroom that night, they had plenty intentions of warning her about the sniper which lurked, watching her through the scope of a gun. If called out on that attitude which could perhaps be considered favoritism, Death would only say that as the timeless manifestation of the End, they could do whatever they damn well pleased.

Mostly, they just liked having the people they found interesting living longer, for the sake of their eternal entertainment. And though they had been around before even the first human came to be, every now and then even they could still be surprised.

They anticipated Angela would welcome them with a degree of confusion – no one expected a sniper, after all. Instead, the woman merely lifted her eyes from the book she was reading, a very thick volume on the ethical aspects of the doctor-patient relationship.

"There you are," she greeted, and that gave them a brief pause.

"I am always here."

"Don't I know that," she closed her book and sighed, staring blankly at the roof. They felt the sniper steady her aim, not too far from where the blonde was. "Lately, you haven't been the only ghost to visit me."

 _What?_

"It got me thinking," Angela rolled to the side, "That you're actually not bad at all. That maybe Death is also a shape of mercy."

They were torn between being overjoyed that the lesson was learnt and being bewildered over what brought that change on. They didn't have time to express their feelings, however, because she snuck a hand under her pillow and brought out something – a bottle of pills.

Oh. _Oh._

Angela stood. Death glided after, at loss for words.

"I've made mistakes," she continued, walking over to her table. There were newspaper cuts spread over it, and Death recognized the faces in them. "You were right. Sometimes, it's better to let go. I should have. I should. I should –"

She was crying. Death would have pinched their nose, if they had any. They were the personification of mortality, _damn it_ , not a therapist. Angela uncorked the bottle and spilled its contents on top of the table. Yet another scene Death had seen many, many times.

They'd never before tried to stop it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tugging at her own hair. "I'm so sorry."

They were tempted to say everything would be okay, but as the embodiment of a natural force, they were unable to speak anything but the truth, even though they could be as cryptic as they wanted with it.

She didn't swallow the medicine but rather opened her drawer and pulled a knife from it. Using the handle, she crushed the first pill to fine dust with rough smashing movements, and then did the same with a second, whispering something incomprehensible under her breath. By the time she'd ground the tenth pill, Death realized she was reciting the names of the two men's victims.

And still, they did not know what to say.

Her hands were shaking. Angela blew her nose on the bottom of her shirt, then collected the dust on the edge of the blade and pulled it in with one long sniff. Her lungs reacted, and she made as if to cough but held it in. A moment later she was down, the knife clattering to the ground next to her.

* * *

With the horrific way things happened next, it took them a while to notice the sniper had moved. In fact, they only realized the woman had changed her mind about the murder when she kicked the door in and walked over to Angela's bedroom.

"Now who were you talking to, _cherie –_ " she muttered, hand turning the doorknob. " – oh, _merde._ What the fuck."

They could definitely see what she was talking about. The room was a mess, pieces of broken furniture on the floor, Angela lying on a puddle of her own blood and vomit, a hand to her neck. They took a moment to figure out the sniper's name – Widowmaker? Amelie? They chose to stick with the former.

"This doesn't make any sense," she said, walking over to where the blonde was, unconscious. Her foot bumped on something – a bloodstained knife – and she crouched to pick it up. "You were alone, I was watching it," Widowmaker turned the blade between her fingers. "Who did this?"

Angela, of course, didn't answer. She was too busy bleeding out. Her nanomachines had kept her alive at first, fighting to undo the damage caused by the drug overdose. She'd known it, too, she'd known as soon as she was done sniffing the dust that the dosage wouldn't be enough.

She'd taken it one step further with whatever she had at hand, which so happened to be a half-dull, rusty knife. It had been one of the most horrifying things they'd witnessed, and they'd seen a lot. It had been anguishing to even watch.

Now the nanomachines worked stitching nerves and vessels back together, reflating her collapsed lungs while she struggled against her own creations for the right of dying.

"A cut on the femoral artery," Widowmaker reported out loud, approaching what she figured was a corpse. It would be, soon, but Death was in no rush to reap that soul. She still had a chance, maybe. "Another on the popliteus vessels. The blade went in the subclavian," she moved Angela's arm. "Brachial artery sliced at both axillar and elbow levels."

With two fingers, she tilted the blonde's head to the side. "And jugular." She paused, thinking. "All very vital spots. All prone to bleeding out, but you knew that, didn't you? You did this to yourself. Holy shit."

Widowmaker pulled the hand which had been covering the final cut. Immediately, blood started seeping. "Holy shit," she repeated. "And you're still alive, too." Her sniper rifle had been hanging from her back and she pulled it free, pressing the barrel against Angela's head.

And then she hesitated. "Fuck you," she said, and then spat on the ground. "Look at you. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic." She pulled the gun away. "I don't get to do this, why should you?" Slinging the rifle on her back, she scanned the room until she found what she wanted – a telephone. She grabbed it and dialed 112.

 _"Zurich emergency services, how may I be of assistance?"_

Widowmaker didn't reply, merely dropping the phone to the ground. Death saw Angela's life expectancy suddenly grow.

"Fuck you," the sniper said once again as they left the room, slamming the door shut.

* * *

"Are you fucking serious?" Angela hissed as soon as they were alone on the hospital room, burying the back of her head on the pillow. "That should have been enough. There was no way I could have lived. Not unless I got immediate aid." She paused. "Did you…call an ambulance on me?"

"I am Death," they stated. "I cannot call ambulances. My presence is immaterial."

She took one look at the IV tubes attached to her arm and grimaced. "But someone did."

"The sniper did."

"The sniper?"

"The one who was going to kill you," they clarified. "The blue lady."

Angela sat up straight. Her monitoring devices protested at the abrupt movement. " _Widowmaker?_ Widowmaker was going to shoot me last night?"

"That seemed to be her intention, yes."

Someone was about to go two rooms to their left. Death let them have another five minutes.

"And you _still_ let me go through that, rather than letting me smoothly die from a headshot?"

Thinking back to it they realized this was, oddly, the best possible outcome. In a twisted manner, it was perhaps the only way Angela could have lived through that night. But Death didn't much care for the what ifs.

They offered no answer. She sighed.

"Why would Widowmaker even call medical aid for me? Wasn't she supposed to be, you know, eliminating me instead? Seems counterproductive."

Curious indeed, though they could think of a reason why. The sniper had more than once tried to end her own existence, promptly being rescued by her keepers every time. There was, Death supposed, some vindictive joy in denying someone else the peaceful earth she could not get.

"Spite, perhaps," Death shrugged. "You'd have to ask her yourself."

Angela's only response was to close her eyes.

When the doctor came, she told him she'd been assaulted – and the nanomahcines had worked enough on her body that he couldn't tell the wounds were self-inflicted. Her recovery was quick - they cleared her the next day.

* * *

"What are you even still doing here?" she queried, searching her drawers for pen and paper.

"Keeping you company," they stated back, peeking over her shoulder to see what she was writing. "It is not wise to leave suicide attempt victims alone."

Angela scoffed. "That would make a lot more sense if you weren't, you know, _Death itself._ "

"I can't help what I am," they shrugged.

"Fair enough."

 _'Having a snack in the living room at six PM,'_ the note said. _'Snipe me or join me for tea.'_

She taped it to the glass window. Then she sat at the couch and waited.

"It's two in the afternoon," they pointed out after a while.

"So it is."

They took a seat next to her. "Are you going to stare at nothing for four hours, waiting for death to come?"

"You're already here."

She wasn't _wrong_. They snorted. "At least turn on the TV. Just sitting in your living room talking to a wraith is a little creepy."

Angela turned to them with a frown, but complied anyway. "Right. And what would said wraith like to watch?"

"Cartoons."

She didn't question it, just flicked to a channel where a marathon rerun of _'The Legend of Korra'_ was playing.

"Have you ever watched this to the end?" Death queried, making themself cozy on the seat.

"No." Angela licked her lips. "Only _The Last Airbender_."

"Oh." There was a long pause, in which they watched the protagonist spew fire at her foes. "She's gay. She hooks up with her boyfriend's ex on the last episode."

They wondered if she was one of these people who lost their shit over spoilers.

"…nice."

Apparently not.

"So was your favorite character Katara?"

"No." Angela gave them a corner eyed stare and pulled her bare feet up on the couch. "Azula."

The child prodigy who develops a horrible mental condition due to the pressure laid upon her. Of course. "I suppose your favorite Star Wars character would be Darth Vader, then?"

"No," She repeated. The corner of her mouth twitched on a slight smile. "Jar Jar Binks."

" _Jar Jar Binks?!_ No one likes Jar Jar Binks. This is absurd. I should revoke your right to life –" she was grinning. "Oh. Nice try."

They watched the show in silence for a few moments.

"It _is_ Anakin," Angela said after a while. "I like the empire. The rebels are too disorganized."

"Oh?" They tilted their head. "I've always pegged you for an anarchist of sorts."

"I need rules so I can break them."

 _Point taken_ , they thought. The episode ended and they didn't move. They had watched almost the entire season when Angela's phone buzzed. Wordlessly, she stood up and walked over to the living room. Pulling the curtains open, she placed three cups of tea on the table and put water to boil.

The doorbell rang.

" _Gottverdammt._ " Angela opened the door. "Widowmaker, is that right?" She sighed. "I was kind of hoping you'd just shoot me."

"And lose the chance to meet the famous doctor Ziegler?" The sniper pushed her way in and shut the door behind her. "I need an autograph before I put you down. One of my friends is a fan."

"You have friends?"

Widowmaker's eyes narrowed dangerously for a moment, and then she scoffed. "One friend. My one friend is a fan."

"Have them come over, sometime." Angela walked to the kitchen and then returned with the hot water and a box of infusions. "Chamomile?"

" _Oui._ "

Death waited for the other two to choose their chairs before taking their place on the table. They eyed the exchange between the two women with interest.

"Expecting someone?"

Angela turned in their direction and blinked. "Not really. The spectral manifestation of Death came visit and I thought it rude to leave them without a cup."

"Thank you," they acknowledged.

Widowmaker took a moment to process that. "…don't they like chamomile?"

The blonde shrugged. "I don't think they eat. They're immaterial."

"Oh. Of course."

Silence. The two sipped their drinks. She was a peculiar one, Widowmaker – one of many which were on the edge between life and them. They had followed her for a while, but she was no more interesting to them than any other of humanity's killing creations. Not until then, at least.

"I was told you called the ambulance on me."

The sniper put her cup down. "Really? Was it the spectral manifestation of –"

"Yes."

Death grinned.

"I want to know why," Angela pressed.

Widowmaker was silent for so long, they thought she wouldn't answer. And then she took a sip from her cup and spoke. "Because if I can't have that kind of closure, then why should you?" She swirled the liquid on her mug.

"Sounds petty."

"I am petty." The sniper played with the sugar spoon. "I told Talon I put you in the hospital. That satisfied them enough. The purpose was only to send a message... and maybe decommission you for some time."

"You didn't lie." Her expression was blank. "I'll make sure Overwatch's high council gets the note… and I don't think I'll be going back to medicine for… a while, at least."

"I want to know your why as well," Widowmaker locked eyes with the blonde. "It's the reason I stopped for tea rather than shooting. Why? Why did you?"

"Regrets. Mistakes." Angela shrugged and looked away. "I'll probably start myself on antidepressants sometime soon."

The conversation died again. Death realized it should have been a terribly awkward moment, but both women were too emotionally stunted to care.

"So, you're not shooting me, then?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I see." Angela tugged on the collar of her turtleneck absently, then finished her tea and spaced off for a few seconds.

Finally, she blinked, her eyes refocusing. "Well then," the ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Want to sit on my couch and watch some cartoons?"

* * *

At first, every single second the two spent together was a moment Death could manifest itself. Their mere presence around one another seemed to shorten both women's average life expectancy, because there was always a chance of mutual murder. And yet they insisted on meeting, communicating through messages stuck on windows and notes scrawled on papers.

Mortals were, truly, fascinating to watch.

Death showed up little around the two, even though they always knew when a meeting would happen. Mostly, they didn't want to spoil it by being ominous, and they knew their very presence was bound to make Angela uneasy – though she'd surely deny it.

Why they insisted on seeing each other was beyond them. It was risky, logistically painful, morally questionable and overall just a terrible idea.

 _Humans always did like a challenge,_ they mused, staring at the two through a window, listening into their conversation while trying not to look like the creepy stalking entity of doom they actually were.

"You want to watch this one?" Angela queried, stopping at a TV channel. "A dancing reality show?"

They had a bowl of popcorn between them. "Yes. I used to dance, back… before."

A moment of silence.

"When will you leave Talon?" The blonde turned to the other. "I don't like the way they treat you. And it would be easier if we weren't enemies. Easier on this... whatever is it that we have."

"Well, when will you leave Overwatch? I don't like the way they treat you, either."

"It's different," Angela countered. "They haven't hurt me like Talon hurt you."

Widowmaker scoffed. "I could almost have believed that, hadn't I witnessed it."

"I…did that to myself," she insisted.

"Did you?"

Angela didn't reply. Death found themself taking a liking to this woman.

"Could you even leave if you wanted?"

"I could leave if I tried," Widowmaker chewed on a mouthful of popcorn. "Whether I'd escape them alive or otherwise is another matter entirely. Maybe you could ask your supernatural friend."

"Death?" she tilted her head. "I doubt they'd give me a straight answer."

They wouldn't, but they might acknowledge her attempt.

"Could _you_ leave Overwatch if you wanted, _cherie_?"

Angela waited for the show to end before answering.

"I don't know."

* * *

"He's going to pass, isn't he? I keep telling him to take the hypertension pills and he keeps not listening to me." Angela sighed, chewing on the butt of her pen. "He's going to go into cardiac arrest at some point. Probably sooner rather than later."

"Probably," they trailed the patient's life expectancy. Something between a month and six, more if he lucked out and had a heart attack near a hospital. "I never pictured you into primary care," Death pointed out from the one-person couch in the corner of office, which was kept there precisely for them. "Isn't it a bit too tame for you?"

"Tame is good," she tossed the pen on top of the desk. "Don't get me wrong, I'll get back to emergency surgery at some point, but for now, I'm taking things slow."

"Talking to the invisible friend again, _cherie_?" Widowmaker greeted, hopping into the office from the window. They were on the fourth floor, and Death briefly analyzed the possibility of the sniper falling to her demise.

"Hi, Amé," Angela stood, walking over to greet the other with a gentle kiss to the lips.

"Oh, gross," they protested. "Get a room, you too."

She broke the kiss to turn and face them. "You do realize this is technically my room."

"It is actually sort of eerie to watch you talk to thin air," the sniper muttered. "I hope your specter doesn't watch us having sex."

They obviously didn't. Their interest in the lives of mortals did not extend to that kind of intimacy.

"God, I hope so too." She fell back into her chair. "I thought you were on the city because of work."

"Yes, about that," she placed her rifle near the window, hung her visor on the gun's barrel and stretched. "Talon wants me to… coerce you into giving me classified information."

"Huh." Angela crossed her arms over her chest. "On what?"

"Doomfist's gauntlet."

"And why the fuck do they think _I_ would know about that? If anything, it's Jack's cup of tea." The blonde stared at the roof. "Besides, don't you have a hacker?"

"Yes."

"And hasn't she replaced part of her central nervous system with a semi-sentient AI, thus creating a mixture of human genius and machine that no security system will be able to stop in the next century?"

"…yes?"

Angela pushed the ground with her feet, making the chair spin. "Then why don't you have this information already?"

"Because…" Widowmaker trailed off. "Well, I suppose because Sombra doesn't want them to. Oh. _Oh._ "

"An ephiphany?"

"She's probably testing me. I think she's suspicious that I've been… sleeping with the enemy." She walked over to the blonde, a sly smirk crossing her features, and then leaned in and stole a kiss. "She's right, of course. She usually is. Sombra always knows things."

"Well, I guess there's only one way to settle this, then." Angela kicked her bare feet up the table, leaving her crocs on the floor. Death more than once had wondered why they had grown fond of a woman who was such a fashion disaster. "Invite her over. You did say she was a fan."

Widowmaker sighed. "I'm not sure about that, _mon ange_. Sombra's interests are always a mystery and they hardly ever benefit anyone but Sombra. She doesn't really operate by the book."

"I appreciate a chaotic neutral," the blonde grinned.

Death couldn't help but roll their eyes at their nerdy child.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's… an opportunity, Amé. Maybe the chance we've been waiting to get you out."

The sniper turned away from them, facing the window, and paced. "I don't know. I don't know, Angela. What even are the odds of my escaping alive?"

"Not good," Death supplied. It was an euphemism.

Angela turned to give them a stern glare, and Amelie froze. "Did you -" she hesitated. "Did they say something?"

"Who, Death?" The blonde arched an eyebrow. "I am inclined to believe you don't think I actually have supernatural powers."

"I don't, you're probably just psychotic –" Widowmaker pinched the bridge of her nose. "But they said something, didn't they? What did they say?"

Silence.

"Angela?"

"Nothing I didn't already know." She stood and closed the distance between them, tugging the sniper by the hips and pressing their lips together. "Nothing I haven't faced before."

She was wrong, but they didn't tell her that. Happiness was a fleeting thing, and sometimes ignorance was bliss.

* * *

"Look, _amiga,_ " the hacker slouched against her chair, a cup of coffee on her hands. "There are things I can do, and then there are things _you_ have to do." she took a sip. "So here's the deal: get her out of Talon databases? Easy. Throw her pursuers off track? Piece of cake. Getting Overwatch off your back so you can get a fresh start somewhere? Like taking candy from a toddler." She put the mug down. "But reverting whatever the fuck the _pendejos_ did with her body, that's on you."

Death eyed the small woman attentively. They'd never paid her much mind, but not unlike Angela, she became interesting as soon as they laid eyes on her.

"Can do. I'll need structure – one of the deactivated watchpoints should do. The one in Eichenwalde would be perfect, actually. And I'll need a team of nurses, assistants, the entire deal. Money's not an issue. Once she's stabilized, we'll probably move somewhere remote… Oasis, maybe."

"Those can all be arranged," Sombra clicked her tongue. "I'll have you know, though: as soon as Talon realizes she's missing, they'll initiate…whatever self-destruction protocols they have on her body."

"I know, and the information you've given me has been very helpful." Angela rubbed her temples, tense. "I believe I can handle it."

Death pressed their lips together, but didn't say anything. They hovered closer, took a seat on the table next to the women's. Angela acknowledged their presence with a nod and for a split second, Sombra's eyes darted in their general direction.

They hesitated. Had she…?

"Then all that is left is to set the date." The hacker seemed suddenly uneasy. "I should get going." She finished her drink with one long gulp and got to her feet.

"Wait," Angela halted the other, standing. "What's in it for you?"

"What, the joy of helping a friend is not enough?"

"Amé told me you were a chaotic neutral," she grinned. "There's gotta be something you want in return."

Sombra scoffed at the remark. Her eyes scanned the room, and though her face did not show any reaction, once again they had the impression that maybe, just maybe –

"Let's just say in my line of work, I could use to be friends with a very competent physician. You're right, Ziegler." She fidgeted. Her fingers were never still. "I'm not doing this solely out of the goodness of my heart. You'll owe me one – both of you. And the day might come when I need to collect that."

"Okay." Angela broke eye contact. "That's… acceptable, yeah."

" _Bueno_. Then if you'll excuse me, _doctora_ , I have places to go." And just like that, with a flick of her wrist, she translocated away, leaving Angela and them on the dining table, the last clients on a deserted café.

For a few seconds, they stared at one another in silence. An omnic stopped by and took the empty glasses.

"Strange, that one," they remarked.

"Strange doesn't quite cover it."

* * *

"You've come for her."

It wasn't a question. The room was brightly illuminated by white light, the constant beeping of medical machines filling the background. Angela stood by a bed. In it, unconscious and quickly fading, laid the woman she'd chosen to lay her affections on.

It was a stupid idea. Had always been. Regardless of the many possible paths, that one had very little life left.

"I have."

Silence. Angela was holding her hand. She wasn't crying, not yet, though Death knew that she would. The beeping grew more urgent, but she didn't move.

"You aren't going to fight me over it?" they tilted their head. The dance, the struggle, that had always been routine between the two. It wasn't like her to simply watch.

"I don't think so," her voice was barely above a whisper. "Sometimes, it's better to let go."

"So it is." It had taken her so long to understand it.

"You've taken so much from me," they saw her knuckles go white as she squeezed her fingers, even though there was no anger in her tone. No accusation, either. Merely raw grief.

"I could say the same of you."

The idea seemed to surprise her – it made her frown and turn to face them. "No. Not ever. Merely delayed the unavoidable. Sometimes at the cost of the lives of strangers." She gritted her teeth. "I have no illusions of immortality. I just –" The tears. There they were. "Try to give them a little bit longer. All of them."

"For?"

"I don't know. I'd say for closure, but truly, for whatever they want. Their passions. Their dreams. I'm not so sure it's as much about life as it is about –" she hesitated, wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand. "Maybe it's about me. It's the trust in their eyes, the faith – I want to be worthy of that. I can tell the very moment when hope leaves them, and it is… heartbreaking. I don't know. At this point, I don't know anything anymore."

They stared at the woman – she was waning, fast. They could see her soul begin to leave her body.

"It's not fair to her, though," Angela continued. "To her in particular. Life never really gave her a shot at happiness, or if it did, it was only briefly. Way too briefly."

"Did it give you?"

The question seemed to surprise her. "I'm… not sure." She thought about it for a long while. Death gave her the time she needed – detached the two from the material world so they could properly talk without interference. It was unlikely she'd notice the change at all.

"I think to me, it has always been a choice," she closed her eyes. "A choice I never made. To love life. To appreciate the good things when they come to me. I might have been happy, at some point, at many points really. I was just never… aware of it. Not like I am now."

"Mortals often notice things the most when they lose them."

Silence.

"Would you leave her be, if I asked? Give her a little more time. If only a day."

"I thought you'd realized letting go is a wise choice," they chided.

"I'm not fighting you for it," she argued. "Just… requesting. As a friend, I suppose."

 _A friend_. Who would have guessed.

"I could," they admitted, because really, it was within their power to do so. Ever since the very first human understood mortality, they had struggled against Death. Of those who saw them, the ones who ever thought to ask nicely were few and in-between. "I could, yes. But."

"But?" she pressed.

"If I grant you this, then you'll never be able to see me again."

"…I understand."

Of all the times they'd offered that deal, not once had they heard a refusal. It was a rigged choice, of course – they'd leave that night merely to come back on the next day or on the one after that. Still, they proposed it, knowing that to a mortal it would always be an easy pick.

"Won't you be lonely?"

 _Oh._

That was a first.

"I…" Unable to speak anything but the truth. "We'll meet again soon enough."

Soon was a relative concept. Death had a different perception of time. It was a very ominous thing to say, but Angela didn't ask about it. Instead, she merely gave them a knowing smile.

"All right."

"Then I'll see you later, kiddo." What else were they supposed to say? They weren't good at goodbyes. And then, because they wanted to leave her with something more, they added something they needn't have, shouldn't have even:

"Try reverting the membrane polarity on your nanomachines. Something tells me that maybe doing that will make them able to stop the corrupted things attacking her."

Her eyes widened, and Death saw her loved one's life expectancy abruptly escalate, counted in minutes, then hours, then days and months and years and decades.

"Thank you," she whispered as they left, and damn it, she was crying again.

* * *

They kept the habit of showing up to watch her do her thing, and even though they didn't directly communicate anymore, their tug of war every working shift seemed eternal. It was after a particularly long surgery one day when they finally spoke to her again, knowing she wouldn't be able to listen.

"Nice job, angel."

She didn't turn. They felt a pang of something – melancholy, perhaps. She pulled her gloves away, tossed them in the trash bin, then did the same for her mask and cap. The speed in which she got rid of the apparatus never ceased to amaze them, particularly when she was on a rush.

She was off to meet her girl, they knew. They'd followed her around for a while. They knew the other would be waiting for her at the door, and she'd go out for ice cream, smudge her face all over as she ate it, then giggle when her lover licked it clean. They knew the two would hold hands and laugh over wine and look at stars together.

She was happy; they could tell by the way that old spark was slowly but surely returning to her eyes, and they could tell by the way the fire was returning to her temper. It was all they ever wanted for her, really. A joyous and plentiful life – all they ever wanted for everyone, though some struggled more than others on their path to it, and some never got it at all.

They followed her to the door of the corridor, then watched her go. She greeted Amélie with a smile and a peck to the lips.

"Took you long enough, _cherié_."

"I'm sorry," she titled her head, sheepish. "It ended up more complicated than I originally expected."

Amelie planted a kiss to her forehead. "Don't overwork yourself."

"I'm not! I'm –" she stopped halfway, frowning. "Ah, _scheiβe,_ Amé, would you mind waiting a bit longer? I have to go back in there."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I just forgot to do something."

"Then be quick about it, I'm starving."

They followed her back, curious. She made her way through the corridors and back into the room she'd been operating in, flicking the light back on. For a moment they thought she'd left something behind, but they frowned when she didn't move, staring at empty air.

On an impulse, they abruptly glided ahead, stopping right in front of Angela. They locked eyes with her, held her stare for a full minute. Abruptly, something changed on her expression – a flash of recognition, maybe – and she put on a toothy grin.

"Hey. I did a nice job, didn't I? I'm pretty proud of myself." Her smile widened. "I can't see you, but I have a hunch you might be around. So you know what?" she stuck out her tongue. "Kiss my ass."

They burst out laughing. Yes, there it was. The edge, the spite.

She turned off the light switch and closed the door behind her.

Death shook their head, letting their presence in the room dissipate. They were smiling as they faded away.


End file.
